The moonlight pooled across the floor, painting the room in silvery streaks as I shut the door behind me. My heart still thrummed with the echoes of the night, each beat a reminder of the brawl that had left my knuckles raw and my mind swirling. The adrenaline hadn’t worn off, not entirely. My breath still came in ragged pulls as I sank against the door, pressing my back into the solid wood as if it could keep the outside world at bay.
For a moment, I just sat there, eyes squeezed shut, the quiet of the apartment pressing in on me. The faint hum of the city outside, the distant blare of sirens, and the occasional shout served as a reminder that danger was never far away. My thoughts raced, untamed and erratic, slipping between fragmented images of the fight. The metallic taste of fear still coated my tongue, mingling with the phantom ache of bruises and scratches.
“What are you doing, Liz?” I whispered into the stillness, my voice trembling and raw.
I opened my eyes, glancing down at my hands. The knuckles were scraped and smeared with half-dried blood—my own and someone else’s. The sight made my stomach clench. I could still feel the weight of the fight, the rush of power that surged through me as I yanked the tether, transferring pain like some grim barter. A shiver raced down my spine. This power, this terrible, unfamiliar, yet familiar, thing I wielded—it frightened me.
I swallowed hard, pushing away from the door and stumbling toward the small bathroom. The harsh light of the bulb flickered on, casting sharp shadows across the room. I stared at my reflection in the cracked mirror, eyes wide and haunted. The person looking back at me seemed a stranger. There was no trace of the girl who used to laugh at Mel’s silly jokes or who would serve drinks at the bar, humming to the beat of a song only she could hear. No, this version of me had shadows under her eyes and blood caked into the creases of her knuckles.
I turned the faucet on, letting the icy water sting my skin as I scrubbed at the dried blood. The water ran red, swirling down the drain in dizzying spirals. The goon’s words echoed in my head, a taunting, sinister refrain: “You're going to wish you hadn't done that.” His face, twisted in rage and confusion, was burned into my mind. The way he’d looked at me—like I was the monster—made me sick to my core.
Was I? The thought settled like a stone in my chest, heavy and cold. Was I becoming the very thing I feared? I had wielded my power instinctively, a reflex born out of desperation. But the aftermath—the bruised and broken men left in my wake—that was on me. I didn’t just fight; I fought to hurt, to overpower. The realisation clawed at me, each thought sharper than the last.
“No,” I murmured, as if saying it out loud would make it true. But doubts gnawed at the edges of my mind. What if I couldn’t control this power? What if the dark satisfaction I felt in those moments wasn’t just adrenaline? What if it was something deeper, something rooted in whatever twisted thing I’d become since that night with Mel?
The memory of her smile, warm and bright, flickered through my thoughts, piercing through the darkness. Mel. She would have hated this—hated what I was becoming. The guilt churned in my gut, mixing with the unease that had settled there. I sank to the edge of the bathtub, hands trembling as I pressed them against my forehead.
“I’m losing myself,” I whispered. The quiet room offered no answers, only the echo of my fears bouncing back at me.
But it wasn’t just the fight or the unsettling hunger for power that haunted me. The goon’s words gnawed at my sanity. “You’re going to wish you hadn’t done that.” It was more than a threat; it felt like a promise. What did he know? What kind of trouble had I tangled myself in by facing the Red Hands? They weren’t just a gang—they were something more, something layered with secrets and alliances I barely understood.
A flicker of paranoia crept in. My eyes darted to the window, the faint light casting jagged shadows across the walls. What if they came here? What if the next knock at the door wasn’t Paul checking in on me, but someone ready to settle a score? My pulse quickened as the sense of safety in my own home started to erode.
The goon’s eyes, wide with both pain and disbelief as I used my power, played over and over in my head. The tether had become a lifeline and a weapon. But how had it felt so... natural? It was like the power had guided my body, showed me how to act. I shuddered. The way he had gasped, realisation dawning on him as the pain transferred, made it clear—I wasn’t supposed to have that kind of control. Not without consequences.
My eyes caught on the reflection once more, and for the briefest moment, I thought I saw movement behind me—a flicker of a shadow that didn’t belong. I spun around, heart thundering in my chest, but the room was empty. Just my paranoia taking root, spreading tendrils through my exhausted mind.
A cold, biting laugh escaped my lips. “Get a grip, Liz.” But the hollow sound only reminded me of how alone I was. The silence pressed in, a suffocating blanket that made my pulse roar louder in my ears.
I pushed myself to my feet and stumbled into the living room. The city lights outside glowed dimly, distorted by grime and rain streaks on the window. Somewhere out there, people were living their lives, oblivious to the chaos beneath the surface. To them, metahumans were either heroes to cheer or villains to fear. They couldn’t know the shades of gray that existed in between—the space I now occupied.
I paced, the questions swirling faster now, feeding off my exhaustion. Was it worth it? Every fight, every scraped knuckle, every sleepless night spent wondering if I’d wake up to find a Red Hands’ blade at my throat? The goon’s final glare haunted me. He knew something. Something that shifted the stakes of this whole mess.
“What do you know?” I whispered into the darkness, as if expecting an answer.
The Red Hands were known for their petty crimes and thuggish antics, not for any grand schemes or secrets. The way that thug had looked at me—a mix of hate and recognition—was unsettling. Recognition. My mind latched onto the word, dissecting it like an autopsy. Did they know who I was? What I could do? Or worse—did they know something about the night Mel died, the night I awakened?
The room seemed colder suddenly, as if a draft had swept through. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to shake the chill that settled in my bones. The events of that night—the battle between Gravitas and Ms. Kai, the way everything collapsed in a cacophony of screams and shattering concrete—had fractured my life in an instant. And now, pieces of that night seemed to be clawing their way back, demanding to be acknowledged.
I sank into the threadbare armchair by the window, my body folding into itself as exhaustion and unease settled like a weight across my shoulders. The city outside pulsed with life, indifferent to the storm inside me. Neon lights cast fractured hues across the cracked walls, turning shadows into restless dancers. My reflection in the glass was faint, ghostly—a woman caught between fear and a newfound, dangerous power.
The room felt more oppressive as the seconds passed, as if the walls themselves were closing in with the weight of my revelations. The Red Hands, those low-level criminals who should have been nothing more than street-level pests, had uttered words that clung to my mind like barbed thorns. The way they spoke, the malice mixed with something deeper—a certainty—made my skin crawl. They had seen me, understood something about me that even I hadn’t fully grasped.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“You’re going to wish you hadn’t done that.”
What did they know? The question burned at the edges of my mind, flickering like an ember that refused to be extinguished. The Red Hands weren’t known for intelligence or cunning. They were brute force, chaos embodied in shattered windows and broken bones. But tonight had been different. The way they looked at me, the way Watcher’s eyes widened with recognition—it was as if he’d been waiting for me, expecting me. It made no sense.
The reflection in the darkened window shifted as I leaned closer, eyes narrowed. Who was I now? This power I wielded—the ability to transfer pain and injury—had become more than a defence; it was an identity, one I hadn’t asked for but was beginning to claim. The tether that connected me to others, invisible and silent, had become both a blessing and a curse. Tonight, as I felt it snap taut and obedient under my will, I sensed that there was more to it than just survival.
Mel’s voice whispered through my memory, gentle and laughing, untouched by the fear that now defined my world. She wouldn’t recognize me now—not in this apartment, in the cold, trembling figure staring back from the window’s reflection. Would she forgive me for what I was becoming? The question tasted bitter, like ash. My hands curled into fists, the skin raw where blood had dried in thin rivulets. There was no room for forgiveness now, only answers.
The Red Hands knew something, and that meant others might too. The implications rippled outward, stirring up the murky waters of my past and the night everything changed. Gravitas, with his cold, unyielding power, and Ms. Kai, monstrous and wild, had torn through the city that night without a thought for who lay beneath the ruins. They hadn’t cared about the lives crushed in their wake. My teeth ground together, the ache a dull counterpoint to the thundering in my chest. The memory of Mel’s hand slipping from mine as the building collapsed surged forward, sharp and unforgiving.
“You’re going to wish you hadn’t done that.”
The warning morphed into something larger, more sinister, as if it held the key to the truth I had been chasing without even knowing it. The Red Hands had been a symptom, but Gravitas and Ms. Kai were the disease. Their battle had set the stage, had forged this version of me—the girl who survived when she shouldn’t have. Who pulled a steel girder from her own chest and stood when logic said she should be dead.
A sharp inhale cut through the silence. What if the power wasn’t just an accident, some cosmic side effect of that night? What if it was more? I’d heard rumours, read stories in obscure corners of the internet where conspiracies and truths mingled indistinguishably—stories about entities, beings beyond human comprehension who bestowed power like gods selecting champions. Was I chosen?
The vision that had haunted me since that night—the lifeless body sinking into muck, the countless eyes watching, assessing—now seemed less like a nightmare and more like a calling card.
My fingers flexed, the raw skin splitting slightly, fresh blood beading along the cuts. I didn’t flinch. Pain was grounding, a reminder that I was still here, still alive. But surviving wasn’t enough anymore. The fight tonight had made that clear. I needed to understand what was happening to me—why the tether felt more like an extension of my will, something powerful and consuming. Each time I used it, the sensation lingered, a heady mix of fear and exhilaration.
“Am I becoming one of them?” The question whispered through the quiet, met with the stillness of my empty apartment. It wasn’t just the power that frightened me; it was the realisation that I was starting to crave it. The rush of transferring pain, of wielding control over life and death—it was intoxicating. And that scared me more than any blade or fist.
The resolve took root like ice spreading through my veins. As the night deepened and the city’s pulse dimmed to a restless murmur, I pushed myself up from the chair. My limbs felt heavy, as if burdened with the weight of realisation. The ghosts of Mel’s laughter and warmth flickered like dying embers in the recesses of my mind, a cruel reminder of the void left behind. But alongside the sorrow, something else unfurled—a sharp, unrelenting need for justice, or perhaps something darker.
Vengeance.
The thought solidified, feeding off the quiet rage that simmered beneath my skin. The faces of Gravitas and Ms. Kai, their monstrous battle blazing across the sky, superimposed themselves on the broken memories of that night. They were untouchable forces, tearing through concrete and lives with no more thought than a storm battering a shore. But storms could be weathered, and their makers could fall.
“This ends with them,” I said, voice raw and strained. The room swallowed the words, offering no protest or comfort.
I moved to the window, the glass cool against my fingertips. Rain streaked down, carving jagged paths through the grime, distorting the city’s muted glow into a blur of false calm. Somewhere out there, the world still spun, indifferent to the war I waged in the shadows of my heart. But this was the only path forward; hesitation had no place here.
The tether—that silent, invisible thread that had bound me to others and kept me alive—would be more than just a means of survival. It would be a weapon. One I needed to master, control, and wield without faltering. The thrill of using it, the intoxicating rush that followed each exchange, terrified me. But fear had kept me in stasis long enough, a prisoner in my own body, bound by grief and doubt.
My mind drifted to that haunting vision—the swamp thick with decay, the rotting body that was and wasn’t mine, the eyes, unblinking and countless, that had stared back with an ancient, unreadable intent. They hadn’t left me since the night I woke beneath the rubble, gasping through shattered lungs that should have stayed silent. The entity behind it, the presence that whispered to me in moments of exhaustion, felt closer now, as if waiting for me to acknowledge its influence.
“Who are you?” I muttered, fingers curling against the glass until my knuckles turned white. The rain drummed steadily, masking the thin tremor in my voice. It didn’t matter if it answered or if it watched in silence. The truth was clear—whatever this power was, whatever entity claimed me, it had chosen me for a reason. And if that reason meant crossing a line I once swore I wouldn’t, then so be it.
I stepped back, letting the curtain fall and shrouding the room in darkness. Memories clawed at me—Mel’s hand slipping from mine, the rumble of stone as the building caved in, Gravitas’ impassive face, Ms. Kai’s feral snarl. Survivors’ guilt and anger tangled together, thick and suffocating. They had to pay for the chaos they unleashed, for the lives they destroyed without a backward glance.
But it wasn’t just about vengeance. It was about reclaiming control—over my life, over the nightmares that threatened to break me each night. The city’s unrelenting cycle of power and violence had taken everything from me, left me hollow and grasping for meaning. The tether had become a metaphor, binding me to a fate I didn’t choose but would bend to my will.
“I’ll make you see,” I promised the absent faces of Gravitas and Ms. Kai, my voice steadier now, laced with venom. “You’ll know what it feels like to be helpless.”
The reflection in the cracked mirror caught my eye as I turned. It was the first time I looked at myself and saw more than shadows of doubt. The woman staring back had eyes that gleamed with a dangerous clarity, framed by the exhaustion of sleepless nights and the faint streaks of dried blood that hadn’t washed away. This was who I had become, shaped by loss and reborn in the crucible of pain.
“One day at a time,” I echoed Paul’s words with a bitter edge, pacing like a caged predator. The kindness that had once coloured those words now felt like a thin veil, one I no longer needed. One day at a time, until I found the truth, until the faces behind the destruction of my life knew the same despair they’d left in their wake.
The clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking seconds that felt like countdowns to something inevitable. I let my hands rest at my sides, flexing my fingers as if testing their readiness.
“Gravitas. Ms. Kai.” The names tasted bitter, sharp, like ash and iron. They were no longer just symbols of power beyond my reach. They were targets.
The night outside grew deeper, the rain’s song softening to a murmur. The silence pressed in, not oppressive but bracing. I stood in it, and let a small, hard smile curve my lips. The city wasn’t ready for what was coming, and neither were they.
I would find them. And when I did, they would see that the girl who crawled from the wreckage was no longer just a survivor.
She was the reckoning.